Page 140 of Corrupting Camille
“I noticed,” she murmurs softly, dark eyes challenging, provocative, another loaded meaning hanging between us.
I narrow my eyes, pulse thrumming faster. Another careful maneuver of my rook, strategically aggressive, controlling, taking back ground inch by inch.
“You’re defensive now,” she notes quietly, tracing one fingertip absently along her collarbone, watching me intently. “Worried?”
“Strategic,” I correct sharply, voice low and edged. “Waiting.”
“For what?”
I hold her gaze, heavy and dark. “For you to make a mistake.”
Her lips part slightly, something unspoken trembling there. Then she moves again, quick, confident, completely unexpected. She traps my rook, ruthlessly snatching one of my strongest defenses away.
“Looks like I’m not the one making mistakes tonight,” she whispers, soft and lethal.
Fuck.
I exhale slowly, impressed and something else, something primal, possessive. Hungry. She’s playing me better than anyone ever has, understanding the rhythm, anticipating every strike. Reading me in ways no one ever fucking does.
I lean in closer, pushing a pawn forward slowly, inch by tense inch, taking ground back, forcing her hand. “I’ll make you pay for that.”
She tilts her head, a slow, provocative smile curling her lips. “I’m counting on it.”
My heart nearly stops, adrenaline surging, desire spiking hot through my blood. I move instinctively, chess forgotten for a half second, hand sliding forward to grip hers, fingers circling delicate skin, holding tight, possessive, needing her to feel exactly how much she’s affecting me. Exactly how much she’s pushing me to the brink.
“You like provoking me,” I murmur, thumb brushing her pulse point, feeling it race beneath my touch. “It excites you, doesn’t it?”
Her breathing quickens, eyes darkening, mouth softening dangerously. “And you love it.”
“I fucking live for it,” I whisper roughly.
She exhales sharply, eyes locked onto mine, heat and anticipation threading the air between us like live wires. Slowly, her gaze drifts to the board again, fingers grazing the marble, considering carefully.
“Finish the game,” I challenge, voice low, the words a dare wrapped in desire.
She pauses, eyes meeting mine again, defiant and reckless. “I thought I already had.”
“Not yet,” I breathe, leaning forward until there’s almost no space between us, until every breath she takes brushes hot against my mouth. “Not even fucking close.”
Camille
My breath catches sharp in my chest, a ragged little hitch betraying just how deeply he’s crawling beneath my skin. KaneRivera isn’t simply playing chess, he’s playing me, inch by torturous inch. Each move, each careful adjustment of his pieces feels like his fingers ghosting slowly over my skin, teasing, testing, tempting me to slip. He’s studying me, waiting for me to crack open, to yield, to finally lose this game we’re playing beneath the game itself.
But I won’t.
Not yet.
I force my attention back to the marble pieces, my fingers trembling slightly as they hover just above my queen. The tension between us thickens, charged and dangerous, settling heavy in my chest. Kane’s dark gaze sears into my skin, daring me to take the next step, urging me toward the edge.
I move my queen forward carefully, dangerously, invading his territory, closing in tighter. “Check,” I murmur softly, glancing up slowly beneath lowered lashes.
Kane’s jaw flexes sharply. Something in his eyes flickers, a thrill, something close to admiration. But he covers it fast, calm returning to his features, cool and unshakable. He reaches forward slowly, decisively shifting his king just enough to escape my immediate threat.
My pulse spikes harder, hotter, excitement racing beneath my skin like wildfire. He’s good. Better than good. Every move he makes is careful, patient, lethal. Exactly like the man himself.
“You’re running out of moves,” I say softly, lips curving in a teasing smirk.
He leans forward, elbows resting casually on his knees, fingers steepled beneath his chin, eyes narrowed and intense as he studies the board. “Maybe I just enjoy being cornered,” he murmurs. “Makes it sweeter when I turn the tables.”
